


A Helping Hand

by Daegaer



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels, Demons, Gen, Manicures & Pedicures, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2003
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-25
Updated: 2003-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-05 16:51:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley and Aziraphale visit one of Aziraphale's neighbours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Helping Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Roz Morgan](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Roz+Morgan).



 

 

It was a quiet afternoon at the Silken Sheen Salon (1) and Mandy was breathing a sigh of relief. The morning had been very busy, with frazzled clients rushing in and demanding miracles, wanting their rough-skinned, bitten-nailed, cold-reddened hands to be turned into a princess's paws as if they had never washed a dish in their lives. No one wanted their hands to look like they'd been used for gutting fish on Christmas Day. Now, however, people's energy was flagging and the town was gradually emptying as wallets and feet gave up and people dragged themselves home for a reviving drink and a mince pie. Mandy felt vaguely dissatisfied, and the thought of facing her sister and her nieces and nephews for the coming week was weighing heavy on her mind. Frankly, she preferred her clients. 

The bell over the door tinkled merrily, and Mandy found herself smiling cheerfully as one of her regulars came in, his face pink with the cold and a tall dark-haired young man shadowing him. 

'Mr. A!' she trilled. 'Merry Christmas!' 

'Afternoon, Mandy! Room for a little one?' Mr. A smiled, and then whisked a large bunch of flowers out from behind his back. 

'Oooh, Mr. A! Are those for me?' she said happily as he laughed and nodded. 

'And I haven't forgotten the young ladies,' he said, producing lovely wrapped boxes from his shopping bag. 'Merry Christmas, ladies!' 

'Now, Mr. A, you know me and A'isha don't celebrate Christmas,' Jamila said teasingly. 

'Dear me, I'd quite forgotten,' he said in mock surprise. 'I suppose you don't want the chocolates, then?' 

'We could do you a favour and take them off your hands,' Jamila said gleefully. (2) 

'What can we do you for, Mr. A?' Mandy said, well aware that the girls were whispering about the silent young man standing behind her favourite client. Still, a lady didn't goggle and act inquisitive, and she was sure that Mr. A would introduce them sooner rather than later. 

'The usual, please, my dear,' Mr. A said, and turned to usher the other man forward. 'This is my friend Crowley; I've persuaded him to have a manicure as well.' 

'Hi,' Mr. Crowley said. 

Mandy blinked in surprise. How odd that she hadn't noticed he was wearing sunglasses. She was about to say something, but then it didn't seem so strange and she let it pass. It was more worrying, she thought suddenly, that Mr. Crowley appeared to be in his mid-twenties. Mr. A always spoke about him as if they were the same age, with the same kind of jobs. In fact, she was quite sure that Mr. A had been telling exasperated stories about his friend for as long as she'd worked in the Salon, over fifteen years. She must be remembering wrong, she thought. Mr. A was a perfectly nice man, so Mr. C must be a good bit older than he looked. Probably spent a fortune on moisturisers. 

'Well, I'll take care of you, Mr. A,' she said. She wasn't going to give a chance for a gossip over to one of the girls. 'Jamila, do you want to do Mr. C?' 

Mr. C gave a very cocky grin. 'Oh, I think she does,' he said. 

Jamila blushed, then frowned in a way Mandy thought she'd regret in years to come - added years to the face, frowning did - and sternly pulled out a chair for Mr. C. A'isha nipped off into the kitchenette to make cups of tea for the clients - Mandy was most particular not to call them customers. The gentlemen took off their coats and sat down, and Mandy got to work, dividing her attention between what Mr. A was telling her about the dreadful crowds in the shops and Mr. C's conversation with Jamila. 

'Packed, absolutely packed,' Mr. A said, shaking his head. 'We could hardly squeeze in the doors of some places.' 

'Actually, I don't think I've ever needed a manicure before,' Mr. C was saying. 

'Oh, you need one,' Jamila said, 'your skin's so dry! You should wear gloves, the cold will make your hands scaly.' 

'How's business, dear?' Mr. A asked. 

'Can't complain,' Mandy said. 'We were awfully busy - weren't we girls? - but it's all winding down now. I'm glad you dropped by when we could fit you in.' She paused; Mr. A always dropped by just as she was resigning herself to not having any more clients. She didn't recall him ever making an appointment. He probably just popped in if he was on the way to his shop and saw she was free, she reasoned. 

'You doing anything exciting for Christmas, Mr. Crowley?' Jamila asked. 

'Not really. And call me Crowley.' 

'I can't do that!' Jamila giggled. 'That's rude!' 

'Quite right,' Mandy said, approvingly. 'What's your Christian name, Mr. C?' 

'My . . . Christian . . . name?' he said with an evil smile. 'Suppose I'm not a Christian?' 

Mandy looked at him, flustered. Despite the best efforts of Jamila and A'isha, she tended to assume everyone was C of E, even if they said otherwise. 

'Ignore him,' Mr. A said. 'I told you he was an idiot, didn't I?' 

'What's _your_ Christian name, Aziraphale?' Mr. C asked, grinning. 'You've always struck me as a Timmy, or maybe a Cecil.' 

'What _is_ your name, Mr. A?' Mandy said, excited. She never really got any personal details out of Mr. A, not even after all this time. A very discreet gentleman, she thought. Didn't flaunt things. She liked that. 

'Um. Well, the thing is - I don't have another name, other than Aziraphale,' Mr. A said. 'Our - er - culture doesn't go in for them.' 

'Your culture? But you're English,' Mandy said. 

'Indeed we are,' Mr. C said, and leaned over the table. 'My name's Anthony,' he said confidingly to Jamila. 

Mr. A snorted in a rather undignified way. 'He likes to fit in,' he explained to Mandy. 'But we're not _originally_ from England.' He looked pensive, and went on, 'I'm afraid our place of origin doesn't get shown on maps anymore.' 

'Oh dear,' Mandy said, in rather a tizz about getting such details. 'A'isha, get poor Mr. A another cup of tea!' She thought for a moment as she gently eased Mr. A's cuticles back. 'So you weren't born in England, then?' she said. 

'No, dear lady.' 

'Ah, well that explains it. I suppose a lot of foreign people like to send their children to a really good school if they're planning on living here,' she said, 'and the kiddies would get a lovely accent like you have. And then people who are maybe a bit younger,' she looked dubiously at Mr. C's young face, and reminded herself that Mr A was a very nice man who wouldn't be so - so _bad_ , 'people who are born here might go to a local comprehensive and get an accent like yours, Mr. C,' she continued. 

The smile dropped off Mr. C's face, and Mr. A inhaled his chocolate Hobnob as he laughed. He wheezed alarmingly, but waved away offers of help. Mr. C looked positively poisonous for a few moments, and Mandy thought she was right, he really was a lot older than he seemed at first glance. 

'What colour are your eyes, Anthony?' Jamila asked. 

'What colour do you think they are?' Mr. C said, cheerful again. 

'You've got really dark hair, so - brown.' 

'Nope,' Mr. C grinned. 

'OK. You're very fair-skinned, so - blue.' 

'Nope.' 

Mandy listened to Jamila running through less and less likely colours, and saw that Mr. A was getting a bit edgy. He got really jumpy when his friend put a hand up to his glasses and began teasingly to slowly pull them off. 

'It's just a bit of harmless flirting, Mr. A,' she assured him. 'I'm sure he doesn't mean to upset you.' 

Mr. A looked at her in blank confusion, and Mr. C slid off his glasses. 

'Just kidding. They are brown after all,' he said, with a sly smile over at Mr. A, who looked a bit frazzled. 

Mandy shook her head. Gentlemen like Mr. A could be so highly strung. She bent to the task of buffing his fingernails to a high shine. 

'Do you sell books too, Anthony?' Jamila was saying. 

'Do I look like I moulder away in a dank bookshop?' Mr. C sniggered. 'No, I'm a - talent scout. I make people's every dream come true. Like - if they secretly wanted to be a singer instead of - oh, let's say a manicurist.' 

Jamila stopped filing his nails and looked up at him in silent astonishment. He smiled at her pleasantly. Mandy told herself not to frown, it was too aging. But she didn't want anyone stealing Jamila away, not when the girl was so good. 

'Are you really a talent scout?' Jamila asked quietly. 

'Scout's honour,' Mr. C said. He fished in his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a business card. 'If you want something hard enough, I can help you get it.' He held out the card, and then pulled it back a little. 'You have to really want something though, enough to give up all your old certainties. But if you're certain, you give me a call.' 

'Crowley!' Mr. A snapped. 'No work conversations! I _told_ you!' 

'All right, all right,' Mr. C said, rolling his eyes. He winked at Jamila. 'Call me.' 

'There we are, Mr. A,' Mandy said. 'All done.' 

'And as lovely a job as ever,' Mr. A said, pulling out his wallet. 'Sorry about Crowley, he's usually like that.' 

'He seems like a very nice young man,' Mandy said. 'I hope you have a nice Christmas.' 

'You too, dear,' Mr. A smiled. 'Come on, Crowley.' 

They pulled on their coats and wandered back out into the chilly Christmas Eve, Mr. C pestering Mr. A to take him to his barber's next so he could see who else Mr. A had been talking to about him behind his back. 

'What a waste,' Jamila said looking at Mr. C as he turned up the collar of his coat. 

'Don't be like that,' Mandy said. 'I think they're good for each other.' 

Mr. A waved cheerily in the window at them, and they all waved back. 

Behind them, on Jamila's table, Mr. C's business card burnt down to the finest white ash. 

* * *

(1) Her assistants had told her the name sounded like a type of paint, but Mandy always refused to change the name. 

(2) Mr. A was awfully ecumenical, and brought round chocolates at the least hint of a major religious festival, bank holidays and at the equinoxes and solstices. 

 


End file.
